Die Hard
by DTakersGurls
Summary: Sorta what happens after the Die Hard movies.  What McClane goes through when the bad guys are dead and the threat is over.


This is my first Die Hard fan fic. I noticed not a lot of them on the net. I couldn't find a whole lot so I decided to try to make one on my own. I'm usually good at Angst. So be warned!

Tears rolled down his dirty and bloodied cheeks. Tears of pain, anger, frustration, and fear. The last one was what he hated: Fear. He hated being afraid. The adreline was leaving his body causing him to feel the beating he took. All the cuts, bruises, stabs, and even gunshot wounds began to take their toil. He had no clue where Holly was. God what if she were killed? He didn't even want to contemplate that.

"I'm too fucking old for this shit." He whispered to himself, trying to lighten his mood. He was a alive but even after this…saving countless people's lives, saving his wife's life. Giving everything he had. Blood and sweat…after this he would still go back to his life. Sitting alone in his cheap apartment, eating ramen noodles…and being alone.

He made his way down the stairs. Cops and paramedics scrambled all over the place, checking the wounded and taking statements. A paramedic raced over to him when he saw McClane stumble from the building. He gently took McClane by the arm and started leading him toward an ambulance. He snatched his arm away. "I'm fine. There are people hurt worse then me."

The young paramedic eyed him up and down. "Sir…You better come with us to the hospital. Your bleeding pretty badly."

John stumbled away. "I need to find my wife." He stumbled over the limo that he road in and was taken back by his reflection. "Holy shit…" he whispered when he saw the amount of blood on him. His white undershirt was now red with blood and holes, his pants were nearly shredded, and his body was covered in soot, fresh blood and dried blood.

John McClane lay on the hospital bed, using the remote control on the arm rest to flip through the TV channels. He wanted to make sure his wife was all right but he didn't have a clue to where she was, he was informed that she wasn't in this hospital. He had been told that he would be released the next day. All he needed was some blood replaced and a few stitches on the bottom of his feet and he could go tomorrow. He had no clue where he was going to go but anywhere would be better than this hospital. God, he hated hospitals…always too damn cold for him. And being from New York he was used to cold weather but it didn't mean he liked it.

He didn't know where he was going to go but at least Argyle had phoned him in his room and told him that he could stay with him for a while if he couldn't find his wife.

Three weeks later after staying with Argyle for a week and getting his money sent to him he was able to fly back to New York.

He sat in his one bedroom apartment staring at the photograph that sat on the nightstand next his bed. Him and Holly standing next to each other and his kids standing in front, Lucy and John Jr. He felt his throat tighten up and his eyes mist over as he stared at the picture.

Holly told him over the phone that she wanted a divorce, that was why she invited him out to Cali. Not to reconcile or even see his kids…just to sign a few goddamned papers. He couldn't even see his kids. God he missed them. He loved his kids, more than Holly said he did. He found out she told them that he didn't love them and that was why he didn't move to Cali with them.

"Heatless Bitch." He snarled and flung the picture against the wall, shattering it. He sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands All he did and this was the thanks he gets. His wife hates him, his kids hate him, and his job was slowly sinking.

He reached down next to the bed and pulled out a whiskey bottle. He took a long gulp letting the liquid burn it's way down his throat. He dropped the bottle back down and laid back on he bed.

He laid there staring up at the ceiling, feeling the tears come back. They coursed silently down his cheeks as he continued staring at the ceiling. "Why didn't I die?"

He laid one arm across his eyes as he drunkenly mumbled to himself. "Wish…I was fuckin…dead." He finally passed out. Even when he dreamed he could still hear the gunshots and screaming.


End file.
